One Hour to Live
by Notthisguy
Summary: It all starts with a dead taxi driver and a smiling madman. One-Shot


I slide out of the taxi, briefcase in hand. The still-warm body of the driver slouches further down in its seat as I tuck my knife away. It was nothing personal, just a simple matter of tidying up. Besides, I have only an hour before they find me anyway. I have only an hour to live.

As I walk away from the dead man in the alley way, I marvel once again at the ease with which I can kill. A little knife there, a dose of poison there, and another body is added to my tally. Of course, I don't keep track of all the bodies like those of the taxi driver, only the important ones. I am credited with the lives of two US Senators, fifteen CEOs' of Fortune Five Hundred companies, five heads of African, Asian, and South American states… and soon to be one British Prime Minister.

As a contract killer, I have seen all of the "big" places: Beijing, Paris, Mexico City, Tokyo; the list goes on forever. But London remains my favorite. Part of it is the history hidden within the walls and buried under the ground, a history not often known. Another part, of course, involves what I will do in… fifty-seven minutes from now. A glance at my watch confirms this, and as I turn out of the alley onto the sidewalk, I continue musing. The history of the world in general and London in particular comprises a bloody spectacle of a story. And I do enjoy a story with blood.

Each person I pass continues on, not noticing the man who will soon change their lives forever in their midst. The fools, they know nothing about me. They know and care nothing for the man who will, in just fifty-five minutes now, render them all dumb. I wanted to be a doctor, caring for the sick and injured, saving lives. That sort of thing. Quaint, I know, but a pleasant quaint. Somewhat like waking up in the morning and seeing the sunlight bathe across the skin of your lover. They called me the brightest student at Cambridge, a genius of the human body… and some other things.

As I round the corner, my thoughts are cut off by the impact of a human body against me. I stumble, and caught myself on a lamppost. "Terribly sorry," I hear a voice to my right say, "I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?"

I turn to face the voice, a pleasant remark on my lips, when I see his face. The words die a sudden, horrible, and agonizing death in my mouth. _Him_. Instantly, I feel all the old rage coming back again. All the old pain and anguish rises up in me, and stops. I stare at his face. Obviously, he doesn't even recognize me, and the slightest indication that it is me will ruin everything. I nod politely. "Of course I'm all right, sir. Believe me, I've been through worse."

He laughs a little, still shaking himself off. "Believe me, I know the feeling." He rubs his right leg a little and seems to grow distant. "But again, my apologies. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course." I say, "Of course I'm alright." He smiles, turns, and begins strolling down the sidewalk, not even realizing who he saw. I also turn and walk away, continuing down the corner past where we collided. The memories came back again. The test, the office visit, the denunciation. The cell where I was kept for five years. All because of what he did. He couldn't keep a secret, couldn't join me on the frontier of a new kind of medicine. He… but that is in the past, isn't it? After all, what can he do? Even if he recognizes me, they'll just send out an ambulance, not realizing who I truly am. Even if he does know, which he couldn't, who would believe him?

I shake my head as I continue down the sidewalk, now passing Hyde park on my right. I have… forty-five minutes until I'm up for my surgery. Forty-five minutes until the whole world knows about what I have done. I see a little shop up ahead selling tea. As I walk toward it, I think back to the man. Imagine… imagine what we could have done if we had worked together? I would be years ahead, perhaps even decades. But he threw it all away. As I opened the door, I try to remember where he had been to. Even in the asylum, I learned things. The military, I think? Probably just a staff surgeon somewhere, that man could never survive a minute in combat.

As I stand in the long line, I once more consider every detail of the plan, thinking about anything that could go wrong. A car has already been prepared by my employer, and my disguise is secure in my coat. I wonder, for a moment, if the necessary chemicals would be there, but deny it instantly. In order for me to complete my contract, like all the others, those chemicals would be necessary. I reach the front of the line, and pull out my wallet. The girl at the counter meets my eyes, and, ever so slightly, her eyes harden. "Hello," I say, "I would like one of those pastries and a small…" My eyes trace over the options on the placard above her head. "A small cup of Earl Grey."

"Will that be all, sir?" She asks with a hint of trepidation.

"Ah, that should be. But wait. Also, if you could, I'd like a little sugar in it."

At those words, her fingers tighten on the paper cup she had pulled out. "Of course sir, I'll see to it." As I hand over my card, I catch her eye, and smile.

I turn out of line and head over to the newsstand. A glance at the headline of The Times tells me what I want to know. Indeed, the Prime Minister will be making an announcement on the recent political arrests. I sigh a little, thinking back to the fond day of my own… arrest. I was in with a patient when they broke through the locked door. I had been so close to figuring out what I was doing wrong. The shock of being arrest made me lose control, and the patient expired on the table. Illegal medical research, they said. But you and I know better, don't we? You and I both know that I had discovered a new branch of science. Performance-enhancers, is what they called them. Hardly. "Earl Grey with sugar and pastry!" I head over to the counter, and take the order from the now less pale girl. "Thank you, my dear." As I hold the bag, I can feel the extra weight. Perfect.

I stroll out of the coffee shop, heading toward No. 10 Downing Street. Even at this distance, I can see the crowds gathered to see and hear what they think will just be another political speech on these arrests. They will find out differently in… thirty minutes. And now, comes the waiting. I sit on a bench right outside, sipping my tea and waiting. The bag feels heavier by the minute, but I know what is in it. With ten minutes left, I turn into the gate. I show my false identification to the gate guard, and am waved through, "pastry" bag and all. Being a member of the staff here apparently allows you to do that. As I move toward the platform, I briefly consider what to do about the civilians. My employer wanted a statement to be made, so perhaps they would need to die as well. Ah well, that was all a matter of what the Prime Minister did, wasn't it?

As I stand there, waiting for my target to emerge from his sanctimonious castle, I wonder one last time about the man. In many ways, he was the cause of me finding my true life's work. Maybe I should pay him a visit later and- Instantly, my thoughts cut off when a bear's paw descends on my shoulder. I fall to the ground, agony ripping through me as my shoulder dutifully reports its dislocation. Then I hear his voice, "Hold him down! Don't let him move!" As I feel the handcuffs slipping on, the bag with the damning chemicals being pulled away, I turn my head to look at him… and one other. Instantly, the blood drains from my head. "Watson!" I stammer, trying to understand. "How, how do you know him?" Watson shrugs, looking , as always, like he could care less. "We met four years ago, Dmitri. I had just left the military, Sherlock needed an assistant. It worked out well for both of us. Unfortunately for you, I can't say the same, can I?" I stare at the two of them, still in shock. As I feel a strap being wrapped around my shoulder, I manage to squeak, "How? How could you possibly know what I was doing?"

The other opens his mouth, and says with every possible level of contempt, "A contract killer like yourself, Dmitri, needs to pay more attention to whom your contractor is. We've wanted to catch you for a long time, but every country you operate in usually has refused to co-operate. So… I took matters into my own hands, called you up, and hired you."

As I am hauled to my feet, I let my rage consume me, "You mean, this was all for nothing? All the work and all the time spent planning was for nothing? All because I was hired by Sherlock Holmes?"

Both of them grimly smile. Watson says, "Dmitri, I reported you in medical school for human experimentation. You escape from the insane asylum, and have been murdering people ever since." As am I forced into the officer's car, my shoulder protesting all the way, I hear Watson say, "You weren't just hired by Sherlock, Dmitri, you were hired by me." My screams are cut off by the needle sliding into my arm as the door closes.

As the drugs take hold of me, I glance at my watch. One hour since I killed the taxi man. Only one hour. I was out of time to live.


End file.
